


Mycroft Doesn't Control The Weather; Otherwise Known As The Year Sherlock Pulled Off A Christmas Miracle

by HumsHappily



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Miracles, Johnlock Fluff, Kiltlock Flash Challenge, Kilts, M/M, christmas gifts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 20:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4849625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumsHappily/pseuds/HumsHappily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock followed him over like a lost puppy, vibrating with impatience as Jaime rummaged through the box, eventually pulling out a soft velvet bag. “Look, see?” Jaime said, opening the strings with gnarled, scratchy hands. The kilt pin slid into his hands, the silver slightly tarnished with disuse, but the Watson crest was visible before Jaime turned it over.  “Now, this bit here is what I was talkin’ about. It’s personalized. “To John, From Hamish. Never forget yer ol’ granda. Glasgow, 1984.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fourteen Days of Snow and Lights

“Sherlock, look,” John said, prodding the lump on the bed. “Come on, you git. It’s snowing.” 

“Snow is boring,” Sherlock muttered, but popped his head up with a grimace. 

“Everything is boring to you, isn’t it?” John said fondly, patting his hip as he looked out the window. “Only two weeks till Christmas. I suppose I should decorate tomorrow. Hope the snow stays.” 

“What did you say?” Sherlock asked, a feeling of dread swirling to settle in his stomach. 

“I said I’m going to decorate. Don’t worry, I won’t put any mistletoe in Billy’s mouth,” John joked, cuddling back under the blankets. “Go back to sleep. I won’t dare waken you again. G’night, Sherlock.” He closed his eyes with a happy sigh, nuzzling his face into the dip between Sherlock’s shoulder blades.

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock said distractedly, looking out the window. “Two weeks until Christmas.”

“Mhmm…” John muttered sleepily. “Maybe we’ll have snow. Proper snow. I’d like that…” 

Sherlock turned over, curling into him with a quiet sigh. “Yes, John. Sleep.”

“Mhmm.” 

**

“You know you could help,” John huffed, carrying two boxes into the sitting room. 

“Thinking,” Sherlock replied, but reached out and shifted the case files out of John’s way before he tripped on them. “What are you doing?”

“Got the lights out of storage in the basement,” John replied, setting them down and fixing Sherlock with an eye. “You going to help?”

“Thinking!” Sherlock grumbled and turned over, curling into the back of the couch and twitching his robe over himself. 

“Lazy git.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and went back to sorting through his mind palace. Thirteen days until Christmas. Christmas meant gifts. Gifts for others were easily sorted. Molly, loose leaf tea, three different types. Lestrade, new leather gloves and a cashmere scarf he’d stain within a week. Mrs. Hudson the new cookbook she kept mentioning, something about a person on television on the Irish channels and a new set of baking dishes. Mycroft, nothing but a large basket of sweetcakes. But John. John needed something special. Not jewelry. He wore nothing around his neck, no watches around his wrists, because it was too hard to wash his hands. No rings. The connotations of such Sherlock would ignore for the time being. He did place a pair on the windowsill of his mind palace, settling Billy carefully beside them as a reminder. No rings. Not this Christmas. Perhaps a plant? But no, that would just end badly Sherlock thought, glancing to the charred and leafy remains of his acid titration experimentation. An old manuscript? Perhaps. Sherlock pinned that idea to the center of the smiley face on the wall. 

He sighed in frustration, both inside his head and out, before pacing down the corridor of his mind palace. Better to ask John anyway. He stopped, peering out a window at his beehives. Each creature carried a different fact, each hive a different designation. Biology, physics, psychology. Chemistry, the largest hive of course. The decomposing bodies were behaving nicely, each paused at a certain stage. Sherlock gave a satisfied smile and continued along, bare feet cold on the marble floors. 

He smiled as Redbeard darted out of the dog door to his right, barking a greeting. “Hello boy,” Sherlock said, petting his head. “Come. We’re finding John.” 

Redbeard barked again and padded happily along beside him. Sherlock pushed open an old, weathered door, at odds with the rest of the palace. John, not John outside, not “now” John, but “future-old-grey hair-wrinkled-still loves Sherlock”John looked up and smiled. “Hello, love.”

Sherlock smiled at John. “Hello, John.”

John pushed a mug of tea, the perfect temperature, made the perfect, overly-sweet way Sherlock preferred. “How’s the outside?” John asked, old body creaking as he stretched his arms up, shoulders popping. 

“It snowed last night. The streets are intolerable,” Sherlock replied, sitting down. Redbeard slipped under the table, curling atop Sherlock’s feet with a content sigh.

“I must have been excited,” John said. “I always loved snow.”

“You woke me to show me at two-forty-two this morning,” Sherlock said, wrapping his hands around the mug and pulling it closer. The steam rose in spirals, even in the warmth of the kitchen as Sherlock traced the acid burns and knife gouges in the weathered wooden table.

“So, it’s winter. And close to Christmas, right?” John asked, watching Sherlock as he drank from his mug. Sherlock nodded a confirmation. “All right,” John said. “What are you getting me, then?”

Sherlock sighed. “I don’t know.” Christmas music began to play, violin notes winding their way lazily through the air and Sherlock scowled up at them. He reached up and tapped one, popping it with a discordant twang as John chuckled.

“Well, have I said anything about what I need?” John asked, taking another drink as the scene outside the window above the sink changed to match the weather in London, cloudy and gray. 

Sherlock shook his head. “No. You said you needed new jumpers, and then went to buy them yourself. Then you said we needed more space, but I refuse to buy you a house for Christmas.” 

“Please don’t buy me a house,” John said with a quiet laugh. “What about something that will surprise me?” He sighed at the look on Sherlock’s face. “Never mind. No more surprises after that piñata episode.” 

“You said you hoped there would be snow,” Sherlock said. “But I cannot make the snow stay outside.”

“Right,” John said. “Even Mycroft doesn’t control the weather. Thirteen days till Christmas, yeah? Well, listen to me. Hope I say something about what I want. Even something small will do. I’ll love it, as long as it’s from you.” 

Sherlock nodded. “Right. As long as it’s from me. But what if you don’t like it?”

John laughed. “I’ll love it because you tried, Sherlock. I’m calling you now. Found something.”

“Oh….”

Sherlock blinked, leaving the kitchen and coming back to the sitting room with “now” John. 

“Sherlock, look!” John said, laughing. “God, I’d wondered why this box was so heavy. Twenty pounds of a kilt will do that.” He had his kilt spread over his lap as he sat on the floor, the Watson Tartan with its plaid of yellow, red and a deep green overlaying a rich dark blue. “Think I should try it on?” John asked, as Sherlock stared. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, sitting up with immediate interest. “That’s the ancient tartan, not the more recent variation.” 

John smiled. “Of course you know the tartans.” 

Sherlock nodded. “I had to solve a case in Scotland once. Scots were being beheaded, and then dressed in kilts after death. The son of a kiltmaker was to blame, but we only discovered that after I realized he was losing his job, due to mislabeling, and wished to bring his father's business down with him. By murdering the customers.” 

“Brilliant,” John said.

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock replied. “John, please put that on.”

John looked at him, seeing a gleam in his eye. “Oh, is that how it is?” he asked, letting his voice slip into a light Scottish brogue. “Yer wantin’ to see wha’ a Scot wears under his kilt?”

Sherlock blinked as a shiver ran up his spine. “Yes.” 

John chuckled and dug through the box, finding the bag with the rest of his kilt gear. “Stay here. I’ll be back in a minute, love.”

“Yes, John.” 

Sherlock waited, tapping his fingers impatiently until John stepped back in the room. He’d forgone shoes, but he was otherwise in full Highland regalia. 

Well?” John asked, straightening his sporran. “Meet with your approval love?”

Sherlock released a stuttering breath, eyes fixed on John’s hands as they brushed a few bits of lint from his jacket. “Oh, yes,” he said, then let his gaze move over John’s body. “Wait….where is your kilt pin? 

John frowned. “I couldn’t find it in the bag or box. Figured I’d look for it, but in all honesty, I probably lost it.” 

“Oh. So you need a new one?” Sherlock asked, beckoning John to him and settling his hands on John’s hips as he looked up, their gazes meeting. 

“Exactly,” John replied. “I don’t know if I can find one like I had though. Probably’ll cost quite a bit. You saw mine that one time, right?”

“Deleted it,” Sherlock replied quickly. “Remind me.”

John chuckled, running a hand through Sherlock’s curls. “Silver. The Watson crest atop a sword, with the motto etched in. My grandfather had it made for me, the same day I turned thirteen.” He frowned. “I suppose I can buy one. Won’t be the same though, you know? Someone I loved gave it to me. Buying something is never the same as receiving a gift.” He shrugged, then bent to kiss Sherlock. “It’s all right.”

Sherlock pulled John to him, deepening the kiss. “Mmm… John,” Sherlock murmured, looking at him with heat filled eyes as his hands slipped over the curve of John’s arse. “What do you wear under your kilt?”

John grinned wickedly. “Would you like to find out?”


	2. A Christmas Miracle With Ten Days Till Christmas

**Where are you, love? You’ve been gone all day. 13:53pm**

_Busy. SH 14:00pm_

**Could at least text. Or answer your phone. Will you be home for dinner, or should I text Molly and ask her to make sure you eat? 14:01pm**

_Not at Barts. SH 14:02pm_

**Where are you then? 14:04pm**

_Out. Kings Cross. Be back late. SH 14:06pm_

**Do I want to know? 14:07pm**

_Collecting data for Lestrade’s case. SH 14:09pm_

**Of course you are. Don’t get arrested. 14:12pm**

_I will return later tonight. SH 14:23pm_

**Love you. 14:25pm**

_The feeling is mutual. SH 14:26pm_

**Git. 14:27pm**

Sherlock set his phone aside, fingers tapping relentlessly on the tray table in front of him. Several hours of searching the streets of London had proved useless, the only lead he had on custom kilt pins coming from internet suppliers that wouldn’t be available within the ten days remaining till Christmas. The rush at King’s Cross had been nearly unbearable, and the scratchy classical Christmas tunes piped over the speakers had given him a headache, but he had secured a ticket to Edinburgh and would be arriving within the hour.

He sank into his mind palace once more, seeking out John and sitting down at the table. John pushed over the customary waiting mug, and looked at him. “What is it now?” he asked, smiling at Sherlock.

“I need to find you a kilt pin, the same as your grandfather got you when you were thirteen,” Sherlock said. “I’m on my way to Edinburgh, and I only have a few hours in which to locate one, or purchase a specialized one and convince them to ship it to me or find a date at which I can return to Edinburgh.”

“That’s the Christmas gift then,” John said, nodding in approval. “Well done, Sherlock, I’ll love it.”

“But I haven’t any idea where to look,” Sherlock snapped.

“Well, what did I tell you about it?” John asked, unfazed by Sherlock’s grumbling.

“That you lost it, that it had the Watson crest on the top, that it is in the shape of a sword, that you got it in Glasgow on a trip to visit your grandparents. Wait…” Sherlock jumped up, throwing a table of train times from his pocket down onto the surface “I can go to Glasgow. It’s an hour and nine minutes from Edinburgh, not accounting for snow and ice which will most likely cause a delay of thirty minutes on the western lines. John! Brilliant! How could I have forgotten,” he said words stumbling over themselves in order to escape his lips.

John laughed. “There you go, love. Trains stopping, you better go catch the next one. Still have to buy a ticket, don’t you?”

Sherlock snapped back into the present once more, dashing off the stilled train and into the busy station with a impressive swirl of his coat.

**  
“And there is nothing, absolutely nothing that can be done?” Sherlock asked, leaning over the counter menacingly.

“I dinna even have the supplies, lad,” the man replied, ignoring him as he worked on a delicate silver chain. “The kinda work you’re talking aboot takes time if you want it done right. Shoulda planned for this sooner.”

“I didn’t know I needed to plan sooner!” Sherlock snapped, buttoning his coat and flipping his collar up against the winds that have begun to blow outside, that really haven’t stopped blowing, because he was in Scotland after all, and the only thing with more bluster than its men is its weather.  
“Lad, if yer looking for a gift for yer man, I wouldna be lookin’ in here anyhoo,” a woman says, coming in from the back of the shop, hands busy tying up her curly hair. “We doin’ mostly dainty bits an’ all. Try Jaime down the road, he might be able to get ye what yer after, since he knows most people in the old town. They’d be the ones to have pins with the crests.”

Sherlock nodded. “Thank you,” he said, and sent her one of the smiles he used to set witnesses at ease. “Which shop is Jaime’s?”

“He’ll be the charity shop three doors down, but ye best hurry if yer gettin’ there before he shuts. Jaime always is wantin’ his smoke and a fire on nights like this.”

Sherlock darted out, shop bell dinging in time to the man’s muttered ‘bloody English’ and the woman’s good natured ‘ah but he’s in love wit’ a Scot, isn’t he?’

He pushed open the door to the charity shop down the road, startling a ‘Christ, lad,” from the elderly man perched on a ratty, mustard yellow stool.

“Hello. You’re the owner. Jaime,” Sherlock said. “I need a kilt pin. Or to know where to find one.”

“Do ye now?” Jaime asked, looking him up and down. “Kin I ask why?”

Sherlock gave an internal groan. “My partner. John Watson. He’s lost his, and it was specially made with the Watson crest atop it, but as I cannot seem to find a bloody shop anywhere that can get me one by Christmas!”

Jaime nodded slowly, stroking his beard as he closed his book. “Watson crest? Well, I’ve got a kilt pin here that’s just like that, lad, but it might not be what you’re looking for. Preowned, since this is a charity shop and all.”

Sherlock felt the breath leave him in one long push. “Yes. Please, show me.”

Jaime set his book aside, heaving himself from the stool and back behind the counter. “Here we are,” he muttered, rummaging through a cabinet and pulling out a dented metal box. “Yer lucky I went through these just the other day. Haven’t put ‘em out for sale yet, waiting till I catalogued ‘em.”

Sherlock followed him over like a lost puppy, vibrating with impatience as Jaime rummaged through the box, eventually pulling out a soft velvet bag. “Look, see?” Jaime said, opening the strings with gnarled, scratchy hands. The kilt pin slid into his hands, the silver slightly tarnished with disuse, but the Watson crest was visible before Jaime turned it over. “Now, this bit here is what I was talkin’ about. It’s personalized. “To John, From Hamish. Never forget yer ol’ granda. Glasgow, 1984.”

Sherlock couldn’t believe his eyes as Jaime rattled on about the pin. “I’ll take it,” he said interrupting. “Please. Name the price.”

Jaime peered at him over his glasses. “Well….can’t really sell this one for much. And you look pretty desperate. Why don’t you just go ahead and take it, get home to yer man.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, snatching it up after Jaime slid it into the bag. “Here. Let me make a donation to the shop.”

“Not necessary, lad. You just go on, and get home safe, yeah?”

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock replied. Jaime shook his head, and watched him as he darted out.

**

“Sher’lock?” John slurred, sliding his arms around the man as he climbed into bed. “You’re freezing, love,” he yawned. “C’mere.”

Sherlock smiled, burrowing into John’s arms. “I said I would be home late,” he murmured, tucking his head into John’s shoulder as he twined their legs together.

“Mhmm,” John murmured. “But not cold.” With a quiet snore, he fell asleep again, leaving Sherlock to close his eyes with a successful sigh.


	3. Snow and Ice Will Not Stop Something Nice, Or The Eve And Then The Day

“Is it wrong to say I’m glad they’ve gone home?” John asked, yawning as they waved Mrs. Hudson down the stairs. 

“Am I really the person you wish to ask about social niceties?” Sherlock replied dryly, locking the door. “Lestrade seemed rather pleased with Molly’s attendance.” 

“Sherlock, she’s dating his brother,” John replied, shaking his head. “Didn’t you hear about it?”  
Sherlock shrugged, walking back and throwing himself onto the couch, steepling his hands. John sighed, and walked over, setting a hand on his shoulder. “Hey. C’mon. It’s Christmas Eve, love. Come to bed.”

“In a few moments, John,” Sherlock murmured, looking up at the gentle touch. “I need to organize.”

“Of course you do,” John said, stepping away. “All right.” 

Sherlock waited as John went into the bathroom, then into their bedroom before sneaking up stairs. He tugged the cardboard box with John’s kilt from where it had been stashed in the wardrobe, and brought it downstairs. He shifted John’s chair quietly so it’s back was facing the Christmas tree, and rearranged the presents around it. They hadn’t gotten each other much, and John had threatened Sherlock with disembowelment if he dared to deduce what he had gotten. Sherlock took John’s kilt out, laying each piece out with care, until it was assembled. He moved to the mantle, prying up the loose stone and removing the velvet bag with the kilt pin.

After arriving home from Glasgow, Sherlock had polished the pin until it shone. He slid it from the bag and pinned it gently to the folds of John’s kilt, stealing a bow from one of the wrapped gifts and sticking it on. He stepped back, and took in the overall picture. Acceptable. The chair was angled so it would be the first thing John saw when he left the kitchen with his morning tea. 

Sherlock turned off the lights, and headed down the hall, dropping his clothes on the ground before clambering in beside John. John turned to face him, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s waist in his sleep. 

**

Sherlock woke to the fire alarm going off in Speedy’s, sitting up with a muffled curse. John groaned next to him, rolling over. “Do they have to burn the breakfast rolls every Sunday?” he asked sleepily, blinking up at Sherlock. 

“It’s the new girl,” Sherlock muttered, running a hand through his hair. “She’s the only one who would work today, as she doesn’t celebrate Christmas.”

John grinned. “Hey. It’s Christmas!”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied dryly, looking down at him. “Did you expect something different?”

“Oh cheer up, grinch,” John said, poking him in the hip. “Come on, let’s see if Santa came.” He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He paused, and leaned back, propping himself up on one arm so he could cup Sherlock’s face with one hand, brushing their lips together. “Merry Christmas, love,” he murmured, pulling away and smiling at Sherlock. 

“Merry Christmas, John,” Sherlock replied, blinking as John hopped off the bed and pulled his robe on. Sherlock followed suit, trailing a few steps behind John. He waited, leaning on the doorframe as John made tea, then took the offered mug, stepping aside. John made his way into the sitting room, only to pause. 

“Sherlock? Why is my kilt on my chair and not where I left it?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Father Christmas must have visited,” Sherlock replied, sipping his tea.   
“Sherlock,” John replied, pursing his lips. “What did you-hey, is that kilt pin?” He stepped closer, eyes widening as he took in the crest and the shape. “Sherlock! Where did you get one of these?” 

Sherlock set down his mug and strode forward, deft fingers undoing the pin and presenting it to John. “I went to Edinburgh. And then Glasgow. And I attempted to order you one, but there wasn’t enough time. I was told to visit a man named Jaime in his charity shop, and he just so happened to have this. I haven’t made any deductions on the matter, not truly, but if I had too-”

“If you had too, you’d say this is mine,” John breathed, looking at the inscription on the back as he groped with his tea mug for the nearest flat surface. “I didn’t tell you that the pin was inscribed! How did you-I mean-Was this-” he stammered, fingers tightening. 

“Pure luck,” Sherlock replied. “Though you know how I hate to use that word.”

“Sherlock!” John repeated, setting the pin aside. “Come here. How?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but did as told, stepping within reach of John. “Your grandfather’s name was Hamish, you said that he had the pin made for you when you were thirteen, thus 1984. I’d assume you lost the pin at some point when you were in Scotland, storing your spare belongings with your grandparents due to your distrust of Harry and lack of living parents. When they died, your cousins cleaned their house out and sent you your kilt, but neglected to ensure that all the parts were within. Thus the lost of your pin,” he said quickly. “And my traveling to Scotland was the only way I could access a kilt pin of desired quality within the time limits presented to me for a reasonable price.”

“Christ, Sherlock,” John muttered, wrapping his arms around the man’s neck and rocking up for a kiss. Sherlock bent to meet him, then stumbled back, landing on the couch as John pushed gently with his hips guiding them over. “You are the best bloody boyfriend ever. You literally pulled off a Christmas miracle.”

“Well, I didn’t know quite what else to get you,” Sherlock replied, between kisses. “You’re a very hard man to please, John.”

“The hell I am,” John replied. “Just need you don’t I?”

“So I should stop the snow?” Sherlock gasped as John’s hands sunk below his hips and teeth grazed his neck.

“Snow?” John asked, pausing.

Sherlock smiled. “I cannot actually do so of course,” he said, raising a hand and turning John’s head toward the window. “The weather is not under my control.”  
“Right,” John said, grinning at the fluffy white flakes as they fell. “Even Mycroft doesn’t control the weather. Suppose we’re snowed in then. Nowhere to go for the rest of the day.”

“No, London public transportation won’t-ah. You’re propositioning me,” Sherlock said, watching a wicked grin spread over John’s face. 

“Mhmm. Consider it your first Christmas present,” John replied, sinking to his knees and knocking Sherlock’s legs further apart. “The next one doesn’t come until I get the kilt on.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Sherlock Kiltlock Flash Challenge an hour before it was meant to be posted! Cheers!
> 
> As always, find me [here](http://hums-happily.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.  
> Any notification of errors are accepted with gratefulness that knows no bounds.  
> Kudos, comments, and your happy (pained) flailing are accepted with glee. I hope you enjoyed!  
> 


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